


Tea and Sympathy II

by Tea_and_Sympathy



Series: Northern Sky [1]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Almost Though, GOD I LOVE THESE BOYS, M/M, Painful To Write, Still can't write the sex, That was just a sketch, couldn't leave it alone, dedicated to Gleaming_Spires cat, fun to write, hope it's fun and painful to read, rework of Tea and Sympathy, this is the full picture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_Sympathy/pseuds/Tea_and_Sympathy
Summary: “Stay and have a drink with me, would you?”“A drink...?”“...Jesus, he tells you everything, doesn’t he?”“Yes, he does - for my sins - whether I want to hear it or not.”They can’t bring themselves to look at each other, focusing instead on the sprawled, sleeping figure of Dakin. Even asleep he’s drawing all the energy in the room.
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps, Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin, Tom Irwin/Donald Scripps
Series: Northern Sky [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642348
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Tea and Sympathy II

**Author's Note:**

> I had to go back and fill in the outline of dialogue that was Tea and Sympathy. Couldn't stop the images buzzing round my head.

**SATURDAY**

“Stay and have a drink with me, would you?”

“A drink...?”

“...Jesus, he tells you everything, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does - for my sins - whether I want to hear it or not.”

They can’t bring themselves to look at each other, focusing instead on the sprawled, sleeping figure of Dakin. Even asleep he’s drawing all the energy in the room.

“Tea, if you prefer. I’m in the dark about whatever happened here”. Irwin takes in the scene with a sweeping gesture. “You know him better than anyone else. Perhaps you can shed some light”.

The pleading tone draws a flash of irritation. Scripps doesn’t want this; this was not how his Saturday night was meant to unfold. They’d all met in the pub – first drink back home - de-mob happy. But Dakin decided to tie one on and became increasingly belligerent. For someone with so little to be angry about - having won the genetic lottery and being blessed with extraordinary good fortune - he is not a pleasant drunk. He’d stood up, swayed alarmingly, almost knocked over the table, and declared he was going to, “sort this fucking thing out once and for all”. A call went out for volunteers and, while Scripps hadn’t exactly offered, he was the last man standing when everyone else stepped back.

He’d shot Pos a come-with-me look, more in hope than expectation – it was him he’d really wanted to see this evening, after all. But Posner stared gloomily into his pint saying, “I can’t. I don’t want to see him - not like this. Don’t make me Scrippsy, it’s too humiliating”.

He wasn’t sure if he meant Dakin or Irwin or both, but it was clear it was going to be a solo mission. There must have been a bus waiting because, by the time he was outside, Dakin was nowhere – so, off he went, chasing him around town trying to head off whatever self-destructive disaster he was planning.

And now here’s this sorry scene:

“Shed some light? It’s not complicated - it’s an awful cliché, but it’s not complicated. You haven’t seen him in what, a year? He turns up pissed as a fart, declares undying love and passes out on your settee… is that what he did - the undying love bit?”

Irwin looks at his feet, the wall, Dakin - anywhere but at Scripps, who might tear him apart with his scathing tongue. “Something like that. He wasn’t terribly coherent and he called me some pretty colourful names, so I don’t know how much love there was in it”.

Feeling a rising fury with them both, Scripps takes a step closer and turns to look at the lost, over-grown boy. He suppresses an unfamiliar urge to shout but, by remaining perfectly calm, only succeeds in sounding more menacing. There’s a small thrill in the power of it, if he would allow himself.

“You disingenuous fuck. You can’t talk to him in his current state, so you want to bore on about him with someone who is almost, almost, as fascinated by him as you are - without the desire to ravish him, you understand”.

Irwin’s jaw is clenched tight, fists balled and Scripps realises, with horror, the older man is close to tears – it's possible he’s heard enough home truths for one evening. And the voice in his head says, “have a heart”.

Sighing, he puts a hand on his shoulder, the warmth of the angular frame through his T shirt melting a little ice. “Honestly, you deserve each other... Come on then, put the kettle on. You’d better make yours proper sweet - you’ve had a shock.”

Irwin’s shoulders drop and he manages a sideways glance, a half smile, “Yeah, I have. I’ve got a packet of Bourbons somewhere”.

Scripps gives him a friendly shove towards the kitchen, “Temptress - that’s clinched the deal”.

He leans in the doorway while Irwin makes tea. Small talk seems inappropriate now they’ve come to a rapprochement of sorts, but it’s hard to start in on anything of substance. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot until he notices the walking stick propped against the kitchen table. He nods towards it. “How’s the leg?” An enquiry after his health – a useful opening gambit.

Irwin follows his gaze. “Oh, that. It’s getting there. A bit stiff and some shooting pains now and then. Lots of scars – for added character. I need the stick, but perhaps not as much as all that - I’ll admit it’s a bit of a prop.”

Now that’s the Irwin he remembers – flash git. It makes him laugh, but more in recognition and nostalgia than malice. “Ha! Do you think it gives you gravitas? You do, don’t you?”

“Felix suggested I grow a mustache”. Irwin grins - wide-open and boyish, affecting the Headmaster’s pompous tone, “for classroom control. A stick’s better than facial hair anyway and you can rap the little sods round the ankle with it, if needs be”.

“I’m not sure you could grow one... Do you know, when I first saw you, I thought you were a new boy?”

“I was, more or less. Is that why you smiled at me?”

“I’m surprised you remember that.”

“I was nervous – you were welcoming and it helped. You didn’t form a very good opinion of me though, in the end.”

Irwin hands him a mug of tea and motions for them to sit in the living room. The biscuits are on a small, floral plate – so, he’s a guest worthy of a little decorum - it’s a nice touch. He settles himself into one of two lumpy, old-fashioned armchairs – the sort of thing one inherits from a maiden aunt. Chintzy as hell, but at least he’s removed the antimacassars.

They fall silent again; being back in Dakin’s orbit shifts the dynamic uncomfortably - It’s like keeping watch over the dead. Scripps dunks his biscuit and decides on a philosophical tone. “The end? Are we there yet? How would we know if we were? Real life’s not that neat - the stories all flow over each other and the end’s never clearly signposted, never mind the beginning. Anyway, _you_ don’t have a very good opinion of yourself. I’m not sure you have a very high opinion of him either, beyond the obvious”.

“Was it? Very obvious, I mean.”

“Excruciatingly. I don’t think you were a normal colour for the entire term... poor Pos”.

Irwin winces and offers up what he hopes is a secret – a guilty one, “He came to me for advice, you know...”

…"He wasn’t after advice; he was looking for a fellow traveller”.

Everything is known then; nowhere to hide from any of it. He puts down his mug and worries away at his forehead. “I was useless...worse than useless - I bullied him”.

“Yes. Yes, you did. Couldn’t you have given him anything, a crumb of comfort?”

“Too scared of exposure - too scared of my own feelings to deal with his. It wasn’t very grown up of me… How is he? That’s a far-away look...are you worried about him?”

Scripps is momentarily lost in his own thoughts. Posner has made the transition from unhappy but not unhappy about it, to simply unhappy; his pain no longer romantic, merely painful. Hector’s inoculations have thus far failed to ward off this malady.

“Yeah. He’s not coping very well, it’s a bit overwhelming for him”.

“I thought it might be. Of all of you, he reminds me most of me at that age”.

“Five minutes ago...”

“...Maybe ten. I let him down in more ways than one, didn’t I?”

“He got a scholarship, thanks to you”.

“Only partly thanks to me – I didn’t sit the exams for you. But he should have gone to Newcastle and been happy. Oxbridge isn’t the be-all and end-all... but he’s got you, that’s a help, surely? He has a beautiful voice - do you still play together?”

“We do, when we get the chance...it’s...it’s a joy. When we play, there’s only now...the present...you know...yes, I think it helps him. I hope so. It helps me anyway”. Scripps sometimes wishes he could take up residence in those moments with Pos when the world recedes.

“Joy?”

“I don’t have another word for it. Not one that will do the job. I’m sorry if it’s too effusive – I meant joy, so I said joy”.

“I wasn’t criticising… it’s a lovely turn of phrase – old fashioned, but none the worse for that. Good. I’m glad you have that – both of you – really. When you see him next, say...”

He gets up to fetch his cigarettes from the kitchen... ”Oh, just tell him I’m sorry I was an insensitive prick. I was trying to think of something clever, but that would only compound it”. He offers Scripps a cigarette as he sits back down.

“No thanks, I’ve given up – for the good of my health – can't afford it anyway.”

“How very modern of you, Mr Scripps, you’ll have to cultivate a new vice – a cheap one” The innuendo is calculated to make Scripps blush, and it works. “You’re right though, I should. I will – eventually.” He puts the packet next to his mug, but doesn’t light one. “I was jealous of you, you know”.

“Who?”

“All of you. You had such an easy camaraderie, you and your Pals Battalion. I never had that - my school mates weren’t as understanding as yours. I was even a bit jealous of Hector. I really wanted to be behind that locked door messing around with you all - part of all the silliness”.

“Hence the posturing. Couldn’t join us, so you had to beat us?”

“Yes, I suppose. But I had a job to do. I was meant to get you through that exam and I did. I wasn’t there to be popular”.

“Can’t take that away from you. But you were a breath of fresh air - really, you were - don’t look so quizzical. We needed to get outside; it had all become a bit stuffy. And you weren’t so bad. I was defensive - of Pos and Hector and probably him too. I think we’ve all grown up a bit, haven’t we? Well, not Hector, obviously”.

“Did you blame me for Hector - for Hector’s death?”

“No! Is that what you thought? It was arbitrary, random, an accident. Besides, how do you know you didn’t save Stu’s life? If Felix had turned up a moment or two later...if it wasn’t you on the bike...”

Irwin is suddenly animated - sitting on the edge of his chair, elbows out, hands on knees. “Do you know why I did it? Got on the bike, I mean, instead of him?”

“It looks like you’re going to tell me. Go on then, enlighten me”.

“Because he’d made me feel brave and invincible. For the first time, I felt like I belonged - good enough to belong. And I wanted to please him. He wanted bold and impulsive, so I gave him bold and impulsive”. He throws himself back in the chair, defeated. “That bubble burst pretty quickly. Hubris. Maybe I killed Hector with hubris...”

“...Or saved Stu’s life with it. Who knows? Random. Arbitrary. I know you don’t have any truck with pre-determination - I’m beginning to question it myself. I’m sticking with God, for now, but he may have over-sold me on his having a plan”.

“Neither omniscient nor omnipotent then, your God?”

“It seems not. And I’m not convinced about benevolent either. I think I’ve got as far as whimsical; I’m more or less comfortable with whimsical”.

“Capricious”.

“Yeah, yeah - and it’s turtles all the way down, I know. It’s a work in progress, faith - faith and love. We’re out of the honeymoon period anyway, God and I. We’re working on a comfortable, long term companionship. Anyway, enough of this whatiffery - pass those biscuits”.

Irwin hands him the plate, unsure as to why he didn’t bring the packet – it's Scripps, not the Queen Mother. “How long have you known him?”

“God?”

“No, Stuart”.

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to remember a time when I didn’t, when he wasn’t just there - a force of nature”.

“God?”

“No, Stu!”

Irwin rolls his eyes, “It’s an easy mistake. What do you get out of it? It looks like a one-way street sometimes and you don’t really have anything good to say about him”.

“Oh, I do. But not when he’s listening - he doesn’t need encouraging”.

“Well, at the moment he’s semi-conscious, so you can probably let rip. I’m curious; indulge me”.

“It’s fraternal. I love him like a brother and I hate him like a brother – I’m stuck with him for life, either way. He’s a complete dick. He’s shallow, selfish, vain, arrogant, all of that - but he’s never dull. But don’t let me catch anyone else saying that. He might be a complete dick, but he’s my complete dick - though I appreciate I’m going to have to share him with you”.

“You still haven’t said anything good about him, except he’s not dull”.

“Haven’t I? He has great hair. And, when he turns that smile on you, you forgive him almost anything”.

“Great hair and a winning smile are not admirable qualities, they’re accidents of birth”.

“Beauty? Charisma? Charm? Demagogues through the ages might beg to differ. But...okay... well, he’s fiercely loyal and he has a strong sense of natural justice. You wouldn’t want him for an enemy, would you? Did you know it was him who got Hector reinstated?”

“No. How did he do that?”

“Blackmail mostly and an intolerance of double standards. He pointed out Felix’s less than professional working relationship with Fiona. And, despite appearances, he’s fundamentally kind or, at least, not cruel. He was never cruel to Pos - not intentionally - and he could have been. He could have been vicious, but it’s not in him. Did I mention his not being dull?”

“You did, yes, a couple of times”. He drums his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair and changes his mind about the cigarette – lighting up quickly; taking a long drag. “I’m leaving the school, you know - education entirely, in fact. I’m going to London in the Autumn to work for the BBC on a history series they’re planning - popular stuff - journalism, as Tottie had it”.

“Mrs Lintott to you, Sunshine. That’s a big change - is it what you want?”

“Dorothy, actually - excellent woman. Don’t know yet. But I need to get out or I’ll be Hector in five years.”

“You really think so? It’s a shame”.

“It isn’t. Hector told me to anyway”.

“What, from beyond the grave?”

“No, idiot, before. He was emphatic - Don’t Teach! And, under the circumstances, I think I owe him one. Mind you, he also told me to keep well away from Stuart and look where that’s got me. But yes, I would get older and the boys wouldn’t. I could hardly stand the latest crop of eager young faces - I’d be a sad fuck before you knew it. Contrary to what you think, I respected Hector - eventually. In the end, he was kind to me too. And he saw right through me”.

“But you will be teaching, won’t you? Only removed. Not having to deal with the messy human stuff – relationships".

“I’m not going to be in a silo - there will be other people - maybe even grown-ups".

“Fair enough. It’s easier to get to Oxford from London and vice versa - and London’s a bit more enticing, for a visit”.

“I didn’t think about that”.

“You fibber!”

“I didn’t! Well, it wasn’t part of the decision-making process anyway, but I suppose it is serendipitous”.

“You thought about it”.

“Okay, it was in the pros column. God, you’re forensic...

They’re interrupted by Dakin who’s thrown back his head and is snoring. Not delicately or sweetly – plain, sawing, drunk snoring.

They exchange glances. “We should probably turn him over”, Irwin suggests.

“Okay, you take his shoulders. It looks like he’s here for the night, I’ll take his shoes off...unless...do you want to?”

Irwin shakes his head, raises an eyebrow, “Dakin may fondly imagine I spend my entire time mentally undressing him, but I assure you I can live without taking his shoes off – I don’t think we need to get proprietorial about it”.

Scripps pulls off his shoes without bothering to unlace them and they haul him over. He stirs a little, mutters something and tries to bat them off, but goes straight back to sleep. Peace restored.

“How many, erm, relationships has he had this year?”

“Relationships? Precisely zero. If you mean, how many people has he shagged, I’m not sure you want to know”.

“You’re right, I don’t. Girls or boys?”

“Both. He’s not one to limit his options”.

“If not quantity, then quality?”

“Desperation - crashing about making obvious noise. Don’t get me wrong, he’s had a lot of fun - we all have. But you know... the closer we’ve got to the end of the year, the more distracted he’s become”.

Scripps pauses; wonders if he’s betraying a trust. But it’s Dakin - fuck private. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but a couple of weeks ago there was this girl and, apparently, you kept popping into his head, unbidden, as it were, and he couldn’t...erm...perform. He was furious - you should have heard him ranting! Stop laughing - it isn’t funny”.

Irwin is head down, lips pursed, trying to contain silent laughter, “It is bloody funny!” Of course it’s funny, but knowing he pops “unbidden” into Dakin’s head is an unexpected gift.

The laughter is infectious. “I know. I had the same reaction when he was telling me – I had to keep biting the inside of my cheeks. The pains in your leg are probably him sticking pins in a, skinny, little, bespectacled doll he keeps for the purpose”.

“Oh, thanks for that image. I think that’s what he was trying to tell me earlier. - with the colourful names. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it”.

“Love and hate - it’s a thin line...”

“Certainly is. He’s not always been my favourite person... He’s very lucky to have a friend like you. Does he know?”

“Well, he keeps coming back for more, so I suppose he does. How do you mean, anyway - like me? Someone who calls him on all his crap?”

“That and someone who follows him when he’s pissed and likely to make a fool of himself - or fall under a bus - or both”.

“I didn’t do a very good job. I was trying to head him off at the pass before he got here. But, as it turns out, my ineptitude may be pivotal. Shall I call you on yours?”

“What?”

“Crap”.

“Okay, if you must. I suppose I’ve got it coming”.

“Tell me something true. I mean, really true. Simple and true about this and how you feel about it - about him”.

“The truth is rarely simple”.

“For fuck’s sake, man!”

“Okay. Okay. Sorry”. He lights another cigarette - buying himself some time. “The truth... oh God… um... I want him...I really do… but…”

“...No buts! Please - don’t equivocate”.

“I’m not. I wasn’t going to. I was going to say - but it’s more than that. I mean want in the sense of desire, obviously, but also… also, lack. There’s this feeling of a void… a lacuna. I can’t shake it”.

“A lacuna? You’re too clever for your own good. Are you sure it’s not indigestion? Are you perhaps over thinking it slightly?”

“Possibly. Goes with the territory”.

“Look. Given the state he’s in - don’t think he said that stuff because he was drunk; he got drunk so he could say it - and the state of you, I think we’ve established a few things”. Scripps is forward in his seat now, jabbing an accusatory finger. “Firstly, you share a capacity for maudlin self-pity. Secondly, you fancy each other rotten and, thirdly, you’re lonely and you miss each other horribly. Given the weight of evidence, I don’t think either of you could put up much of a defence against your being in love. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves”.

“Good points; well made. Nice gerund too - your being in love”.

“Arse. Not good points - true! Plain English - you should try it”.

“Yes, all true. Incontrovertibly true”.

“So, what are you going to do? How are you going to change things - make something happen?”

“Talk to him, I suppose - in the morning. Be honest with him - ask him what he wants”.

“No!”

“What then?”

“Tell him what he wants - brook no argument - sometimes he needs to be told what to do”.

Irwin considers this a moment or two, “I do rather enjoy telling him what to do”.

“I’m not sure I want to know - your expression is positively lascivious. Stop grinning like that, it’s disturbing and it’s putting me right off my Bourbon”.

“Sorry, I’m wiping the image from my mind’s eye immediately. How did you mean, anyway - you don’t think I have a very high opinion of him or myself?”

“It strikes me you don’t think he’s capable of genuine feelings and, even if he were, you don’t think you’re worthy of them. You’re wrong on both counts, you know. I meant it; you deserve each other – for good or ill”.

“I take your point. I’ll work on it - self-esteem or something touchy feely like that...refill?”

“No thanks, I think I should go. We all need some sleep”. He hauls himself out of the enveloping chair. In truth, Scripps would be happy to stay longer and Irwin would be happy to have him stay - the evening having taken a quite different turn to that hoped for or imagined. But their heads are too full and their hearts a little raw now. Besides, both are reassured this won’t be their last conversation, even if it can’t be said yet. Time for a tactical withdrawal.

“I’ll let his mum know he had a few too many and crashed out at mine. I find the most convincing lies are the ones closest to the truth, don’t you? Easiest to keep track that way.”

Heading towards the door, they’re aware the goodbye is going to be awkward - ending conversations being as difficult as starting them. There’s the distance from chair to door to navigate; the claustrophobia of a narrow, Victorian hall; a door to be opened and negotiated - for a pair of diffident Englishmen, this dance is too freeform and unpredictable for comfort.

Scripps considers a handshake and, in the slowing of time that accompanies this graceless Tango, he notices Irwin is about to do the same. But they’ve discussed joy and pain, love and guilt, sex and death - how is a handshake going to cover it?

Without giving himself time to think about it, he says, “look, I know you’re easily startled, but I’m considering giving you a manly hug and a pat on the back, that kind of thing. Would that be acceptable to you?”

Irwin gives a caught-off-guard blink and half smile, “Perfectly acceptable. I might even welcome it”.

“Right. Come here then”.

Their movements are sudden, too big for them and full of forced bonhomie. They’re unsure as to who does what or what goes where - but they work it out, somehow. Stripped of his ill-fitting shirt, jacket and tie in favour of a simple T-shirt, Irwin is all planes and angles.

“Bloody hell, you don’t get any fatter, do you? Courage, mon brave. Try and get a bit of shut-eye before Sleeping Beauty in there, surfaces”.

And the beauty of an embrace? Neither has to look the other in the eye, which gives Irwin the chance to murmur, “Thank you. This was…erm... cathartic. Maybe next time we can talk about why your ears go pink when you talk about Posner and what you should do about it”.

Snorting, Scripps pulls back and pushes him away - both hands on his chest. “Fuck off!”

Then he’s out the door and walking away, a hand held up in farewell. He’s happy to have been turned to face head-on what he’s so far only glimpsed out of the corner of his eye - but he’s not turning back and letting his face betray it.

Irwin calls after him, “Fuck off yourself. Next time bring Custard Creams”.

He closes the door and walks, smiling, back to the living room where Stuart sleeps the sleep of the just. He’s undeniably beautiful, even in this degraded state. He busies himself fetching a pint glass of water and some aspirin. Covering him with a blanket against the chill of the small hours, Tom wants nothing more than to bend down and kiss him – but it would be taking advantage, wouldn’t it? With sudden decisiveness he grabs paper and pen and scribbles a note to leave with the other offerings.

***

Stuart Dakin wakes to the sound of the dawn chorus. He’s facing the back of sofa and he momentarily wonders if he’s been buried alive. His head throbs and he’s sure something’s crawled in his mouth and died.

“Will you shut up, you bastard birds, fuck off with your infernal chirpiness. Jesus, my head”.

Last night is a blur of half remembered words and images, things said and unsaid, intentions and unintended consequences – real and imagined.

He groans, “Shit, Scripps, you were meant to stop me. Where were you when I needed you, you fucker? Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck’s sake, Stu, what is the matter with you?”

Turning towards the window where a grey, Sheffield dawn is beginning to paint the room monochrome, he squints at the small table beside him.

“Oh, water... for this relief much thanks. What’s this? Handwriting looks like mine...ah, it would”.

S

Drink the water and take the aspirin—you'll need it. The bathroom’s down the hall, next to my bedroom. Borrow my toothbrush and come to bed.

T x

“Well, that’s uncharacteristically direct - he might have said please. T...? Oh...Tom. Oh... and x. Oh...okay”.

***

In the bathroom, the boy from last year stares red-eyed and shadow-jawed at the reflection of a man he hardly knows yet. He tries to make sense of his hair, but it refuses to be made sense of. The out-of-body sensations of his hangover lend a surreal edge to knowing Irwin...Tom... is waiting for him in the room next door.

But, for now, here are the artefacts, the relics – proof, if he needs it, of corporeal reality. He picks up the razor, stares at the few hairs caught between the blades. This thing has passed over his skin - scraped him awake in cold-bladed shock. He presses his thumb along it hard and a then a little harder and wonders how hard, how fast, he would need to drag to draw blood. If he’s learnt anything in the past year, it’s that the men and the boys are separated, not by being able to make things happen, but by being in control of what happens next. He holds it to his face, wanting to feel...

But no - his mouth, his teeth, the toothbrush. The toothbrush, as if that were any less intimate. Borrow my toothbrush – the imperative makes his stomach flip – because there is no subjunctive in it, it’s okay because your mouth and my mouth... it’s going to happen...

He does as he’s told, splashes his face, and runs cold water over his hands and wrists in an attempt to quell the pounding at his temples - in his chest. He straps on a carapace of devil-may-care insouciance and goes next door.

***

Tom is faking sleep; Stuart knows he’s faking and Tom knows he knows he’s faking. Some of these circular lies we allow for the sake of everyone’s comfort. The decision he must make now is how much clothing to retain. He considers it for all of two seconds. Fuck it. He’s here now and he wants all of his skin next to all of this man’s skin and that’s an end to it. No need to second guess it.

His clothes are quickly shed and unceremoniously dumped on the floor. He doesn’t bother with any attempt to look alluring – he’d place money on Irwin having his eyes squeezed tight shut. Slipping into bed, he runs his hands over the curled, foetal form and decides nakedness was the right choice - well played, Stu.

Tom is, as ever, taken completely by surprise, “Jesus, your hands are freezing!”

“And you are deliciously warm – I might have to take a bite out of you. Where shall I put them to warm them up? I could slip them between...mmm, that’s mmm… Is that okay?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve regained the feeling in my inner thighs.” He tries and fails to sound authoritative. It’s hard to be stern when you’re suffused with - that perfect word of Scripps’ - joy.

“Thanks for the water and pain killers. It’s nice to feel looked after - after bloody Scripps abandoned me”.

And this is the excuse he needs – to turn away, catch his breath, try to stop the blood rushing in ears.

“Stuart! Honestly, your ego knows no bounds, does it? Perhaps we should just get some sleep...”

Stuart is left floundering, reacting to events – not the plan. “Tom? Come on, please. Don’t turn your back on me… shit”. Look, I don’t know what I’ve said but, I’m sorry, okay? Tom, please... turn over…look at me...”

Tom could listen to this plaintive sound forever - feel the plucking at his shoulder and the insistent circling of the thumb on his neck and in his hair. To know he’s wanted; the lack of him causing pain. It’s not that he wants to make him beg...but, maybe...just a little.

Has he pushed too hard, too fast – drawn blood? Stuart goes with all cards on the table or, as Scripps would have it, simple and true. “I want to see your face… I want... I’ve been wanting to see you so much and I know I’ve messed everything up”.

It’s the want that does it – I want, I want, I’ve been wanting – no way to resist that. He turns back as Stuart is saying, “Can we start again...please...that’s better...hello. The hello is soft, pathetically relieved, and accompanied by that forgive-him-anything smile.

“Hello yourself... He didn’t abandon you - far from it - and you ought to appreciate him more. For your information, we had a very pleasant evening without you”.

“Did you now? What on earth could you two have to talk about - apart from me?”

“Plenty. We did talk about what a complete dick you are though.”

“But you love me anyway, don’t you…?”

What choice but to love him? Not an _I love you_ , but a _you love me_ and even the _you_ , ambiguous – you, both of you, all of you. What response but simply to smile back?

“... yeah, there you go... that’s the one... that smile... I’ve missed that, I have really missed that. You look different though…ooh, no glasses - dear God, you’re naked!”

Tom’s laughing now, “Fool. I don’t sleep in them, you know.”

“I always imagined you did - probably upright in the stationery cupboard.”

Stuart, propped up on his elbow, traces the line of Tom’s jaw with his fingers, idly outlines the whorls of his ear.

“Listen, Tom...I... I, erm... I really am sorry”.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Last night in particular; everything in general.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for about last night and we can deal with everything later. In the meantime, did you brush your teeth?” He knows he brushed his teeth – he heard him; he can smell him. He smells of toothpaste and stale alcohol and the sweet, salt tang of the armpit tufts he’s struggling not to bury himself in.

“Yes, I’m all minty fresh”.

“Well then, if it’s all the same to you, I suggest you shut up and kiss me”.

“Yes, S...”

“...Don’t you dare!”

There’s a moment of quiet as Tom presses a silencing finger against Stuart’s lips. Long enough for Stuart’s tongue to gently touch it and pull it delicately inside his mouth. Tom grazes the rough edge of teeth and feels the hot, wet, inside of lower lip. It is too much and it’s not enough - not nearly enough. Snatching the finger away, he runs a bruising thumb over Stuart’s lips, threads his hand through his hair and pulls him down to dissolve him in a long overdue kiss.


End file.
